Unnecessary Good
by Valantha
Summary: One hypothesis as to how Miles and Nora met. "Miles had what Nora would later dub a case of 'White Knight Syndrome' and his hands instinctively formed into fists as he stood up. " He didn't know she wasn't one for the damseling.
1. Chapter 1

Unnecessary Good

- Author's Note: I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit.T for language and some sexual themes. Mild spoilers for episode 1.8.

* * *

Miles was walking around Philly in his civvies. It was a sticky summer evening and those Militia uniforms didn't breathe – not that it was nearly as hot as Iraq in a flak jacket and helmet – and sometimes it was nice to just be Miles, instead of General Matheson. Fireflies were blinking over one parking lot turned field, the air thick with the sound of crickets and the smell of horseshit. Miles didn't really have a destination in mind, maybe this one bar with a particularly good brewmaster.

Miles saw a drop-dead gorgeous woman sitting on a stoop across and just down the street from a whorehouse. She looked to be maybe twenty with long ebony hair, well tanned skin and cheekbones to kill for. She was glaring at the whorehouse something fierce, and it didn't take a keen observer of human behavior to tell that she wanted to burn the place to the ground.

Miles walked up to the woman and interrupted her glare-fest with, "Do you mind if I join you?"

He gestured at the other half of the stoop. The woman gave him a measuring glance, her right hand moving millimeters closer to her belt knife, but clearly dismissed him as immediate threat. He _was_ currently unarmed, thought Miles, not that that meant too much. Miles took the glance as acceptance and sat down on the stoop. The woman was sitting next to the handrail and on the third step, Miles sat on the fourth and top step with his lanky legs dangling over the side, he would have full range of motion, the woman however could be pinned against the handrail in a heartbeat.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing outside a place like that?" Miles asked, using his chin to gesture to the whorehouse.

The woman's jaw clenched slightly, and she replied plainly and a bit dismissively, "I don't do whatever is it you want – not for food, not for gold."

Miles guffawed and then snarked, "Clearly, else you'd be _inside_ the whorehouse. And you aren't dressed appropriately." He eyed her slim form in sturdy, dun, Carhartt's pants, and an unadorned, olive tank top.

The woman gave him a puzzled look, and he continued, "No, I mean what are you _doing_ outside the whorehouse, you look like you want to blow the place up."

The woman's breathing rate increased perceptibly and interestingly, it appeared that she took his joke as an accusation; an accusation she actually thought she'd be able to pull-off. Her voice remained calm, however, when she asked, "You some kind of militiaman?"

"How did you know that?" Miles asked, genuinely impressed by this woman and her deductive powers, or intuition perhaps.

The woman continued, voice even, leavened with a touch of disappointment, "Shit, you are, aren't you?"

"Sorta," Miles grunted in response.

"Sorta – what's that supposed to mean?" declared the woman, her temper showing through her calm facade.

Miles paused a few seconds to think about actually answering the question, before changing the direction of the conversation, "Your boyfriend in there?"

The woman's breathing rate slowed slightly and she shook her head slightly as she replied with a slightly puzzled, "No?"

The reply to Miles' question, "Your girlfriend?" was a definitive "NO."

Miles was slightly relieved by this answer, it would be a damn shame if this hot chica was a lesbian, not that he had anything against lesbians, just that this woman with her fine looks, deductive powers, and temper was practically perfect, too bad she was so young though. Miles returned his mind to the line of questioning, "Then why?"

The woman replied softly with: "My kid sister."

Miles had what Nora would later dub a case of "White Knight Syndrome" and his hands instinctively formed into fists as he stood up.

"Voluntary?" he barked down at her, she shook her head.

He continued, "How old?" The woman replied, "15."

Miles saw red for a heartbeat or two and then asked, "How long has she been in there?"

"I've been following them since Hagerstown, she's been in there for maybe 6-7 hours," was the reply. Miles squashed down his increasing respect for this woman to focus on the task at hand.

"Stay here," commanded Miles, "But she's my _sister_," was the woman's response, her hand tightening around his left forearm.

Miles brushed off her hand and snorted, "What were you planning on doing about her, _mope_?"

The woman leaned over slightly, grabbed under her ass, and pulled out a pipe bomb. The woman had been sitting on a goddamn pipe bomb!

Miles quirked his eyebrow, a hint of a smile on his lips, damn but this woman wasn't a piece of work. He suppressed his bemusement and said, "Put that away, I have a better idea."

"Oh yeah?" retorted the woman. His reply was a simple declaration of his name, "I'm General Matheson."

Miles was amused by her instant reaction; she tucked the bomb into a pocket, grabbed her belt knife, and drew her feet up under her knees, ready to spring down the steps. Also, her eyes grew as wide as saucers, not that anyone used fancy china these days.

"Stay here," commanded Miles, the hint of a smile returning, "Don't worry, I'll get her out, Miss … ?"

The woman, not quite sure how to respond, said after a long pause, "Clayton, Nora Clayton, and my sister is Mia, … sir."

Miles grinned at the belated sir and stated with confidence, "I'll have your sister out in two shakes."

As Miles strode off to the whorehouse, he heard Nora softly mutter, "Two shakes of what?"

* * *

- Author's Note: If you are a Star Trek: Deep Space Nine fan you might recognize the clunky title and some of the first pieces of dialogue, that was an intentional homage, I see quite a bit of Kira in Nora, and I don't own DS9 either ;)


	2. Chapter 2

- Author's Note: I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit. T for language and some sexual themes. Mild spoilers for 1.8

* * *

Miles strode into the whorehouse like he owned the place, which since it _was _in Philly wasn't too far from the truth. He had rolled up his well-worn and comfy shirt to expose his encircled M tattoo. Miles had been to this whorehouse a few times, he vastly preferred groupies to whores, but Kip, he liked his whores. Kip didn't have his skill at sorting the groupies who just wanted to sleep with him for the bragging rights and those who wanted some sort of emotional blackmail. But anyway, Miles knew the proprietor of this whorehouse – a fellow that went by the oh so clever name of Badger – and spotted him across the front room. The front room was large and tavern-like with a small bar and numerous tables with scantily clad "ladies" and customers. The "ladies" were wearing a hodge-podge of dresses, some wore cocktail dresses, some wore teddies, and incongruously some wore bright sundresses.

Miles waved down Badger and the obsequious fellow arrived shortly bearing a tumbler with a large shot, or two, of gin. Badger offered the drink to General Matheson and welcomed him to his house. Badger was wearing a forest green pinstriped sports jacket and with a clashing olive green tie, he was fairly short and going bald – for all intents and purposes he looked like a used car salesman (which Miles thought was ironic). Miles took the drink and took a large gulp. Esophagus burning pleasantly, Miles said conspiratorially, "I heard tell you've got a virgie."

Badger quickly glanced about the room and asked, "Who told you that?"

Miles calmly replied, "Why, my good friend Kip, you know, Major Kipling."

Badger calmed a bit with this name and quietly suggested that this conversation would be better had elsewhere. Miles calmly acquiesced to the change in location and grabbed another shot of gin on his way to Badger's back room.

Once in the backroom Miles quickly finished the gin and placed the tumbler on top on some paperwork on Badger's desk. Badger appeared annoyed at the possible damage to his paperwork, but said nothing of it. Miles took perverse pleasure from pissing off this child sex-slave owning shit.

Miles subtly moved in front of the door and firmly said, "You are going to release that _child_ to me right now."

Badger made many protestations of ignorance, innocence, and apologies, but Miles cut him off after a few minutes of blathering, undiluted menace dripping from each word, "You _are_ going to release that child to me right now. You _will_ also release any other children under the age of 16 and any women who are not here voluntarily. I _will_ be increasing the frequency and randomness of the compliancy inspections of yours and other whorehouses. I _will_ be double-checking the reliability of the soldiers I send on these inspections. And you _will _tell me the names of the sons-of-bitches that sold you a 15-year-old girl as a sex-slave."

Badger was on his knees nodding and affirming until Miles came to that last point. Miles shut him up with an icy, "If you don't tell me who they are I will close down your establishment during the full through investigation into child sex-slave trafficking in the Monroe Republic."

Badger listed off a half dozen or so names of soon to be dead men, including one militia captain whom Miles had had some suspicions about and one sergeant he hadn't. Miles nodded to the groveling mustelid and motioned him up; "You are going to release that child to me right _now_."

The third time was, as they say, a charm, and Badger got up, attempted to hide the urine stain on his pants and soundlessly led Miles up to a third floor room.

Badger unlocked the door to the room, and moved as if to leave. Miles stopped him with a grunt and glare, motioning him to open the door, just in case it was a trap. The door swung inwards revealing a small room empty but for a queen-sized bed, a partially boarded up window and a fireplace turned shelving unit turned back into a fireplace. Oh and a girl. The girl, Mia presumably, looked up from by the window –like a startled alley cat. The girl was a bit shorter than Nora, and less skeletal, her face was more heart-shaped, but her piercing obsidian eyes were the same.

The girl glared at the two men, accusations burning in her eyes, her body tense. Her wrists had been rubbed raw and her fingertips were bloody from where she had been clearly digging at the window, but otherwise she seemed fine. Thankfully, the girl was dressed in a ruby cocktail dress – Badger would get to live another day, he hadn't dolled her up like some child, he wasn't purposefully pandering to pedophiles.

Her body tensed further as she felt his eyes roaming about her, and tensed still further when she noticed his encircled M tattoo. After a dozen heartbeats or so the little hellion said, "So are we gonna get this shit-show on the road?"

Miles suppressed a half-grin, sure it would be misunderstood as a smirk, "No, _we_ aren't Mia, your sister is waiting for you outside. You are free to go, though it'd be best if you and Nora get as far away from Baltimore as possible, it's a rats-nest of human trafficking."

The girl tensed further – as tightly wound as a rubber-band propelled airplane Miles had as a kid – when he said her name, but she relaxed at the mention of her sister. Miles stepped back from the doorway and used his whole head to motion that she should leave. After a moment of hesitation she darted out of the room like a feral cat.

On her way out Miles grabbed her forearm, triggering rubber-band tension yet again. "I'm sorry," he murmured to the girl, "The Monroe Republic is supposed to be _safe_." He released the girl's arm and allowed her to bolt, listening for the sound of her reaching the front room, exiting the building, and reuniting with her sister.

Then Miles turned to the cringing weasel, and said, "Now let's see if you have anymore little girls locked up in here."

* * *

- Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :)


	3. Chapter 3

- Author's Note: I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit. T for language and some sexual themes. Mild spoilers for 1.8.

* * *

**Three weeks later**

Moonlight streamed in through a window, opened to let in the faint breeze. Miles was sprawled out on top of his large bed, clad only in his boxers; it was an unbearable August night, and even with the luxury of a chunk of lake ice thawing on his bedside table, his sleeping form was coated in sweat. He felt a small, warm hand run over his back and down his abs. He moaned with pleasure. The small hand moved down.

He jerked awake, realizing that this was no dream, "What the fuck?!" he exclaimed as he grabbed the hand with his left and reached for his short-sword on the bedside table with his right.

As he blinked the sleep from his eyes he saw the spunky young woman from a few weeks before, Nora, striped down to her utilitarian bra and undies. Miles had hoped to see her again, but hadn't imagined it would be under this sort of situation. "What the hell?!" he said more clearly, still holding her forearm firmly, "Are you drunk?" Not that he could smell any alcohol on her breath, but still...

She leaned her head down, clearly intending to kiss him. "I thought you wanted this," she said.

"Oh, whoa, I-I-I don't want this," he stammered.

"Well, I think you do…" she affirmed, glancing meaningfully down at the bulge in his boxers, her warm, soft lips brushing his neck.

Miles grunted and shoved her off the bed, away from his body, "Okay, that is the minority vote. And you tricked it. Okay? A guy's asleep! Could have been Fozzie Bear and it would have… Not that I think about Fozzie Bear…" He put his sword down and picked up his trusty Zippo, lighting the oil lamp on his bedside table.

"Let's stop playing games," she spoke, gathering her dignity about her like a shawl. The well-trimmed oil lamp cast a lovely amber glow on her bronze skin.

"Okay, how does _this _qualify as not playing games?" retorted Miles, gesticulating with the hand that was holding the lighter, "Anyways you said you didn't do this: not for food, not for gold."

"But I'm not, this is for my _sister_." She said, sashaying towards him, hands stroking his defined abs once more. Miles was more disgusted than aroused by this affectation of wanton sexuality. The idea of such a proud woman submitting to _this_ out of some sort of obligation turned his stomach as if he had eaten week-old road-kill.

He groaned and pushed her away once more, and she instinctively clocked him on the chin with the palm of her hand. Miles shook off the pain and disorientation, his respect for her increasing yet again.

She uttered crisply, "We both know why you helped my sister. You did it for _this_."

"You don't know me," exclaimed Miles pain seeping into his voice. He put down the lighter and grabbed his pants from the floor.

"Oh yes I do! You are some military monster who occasionally gets his rocks off playing at being a White Knight, rescuing Damsels in Distress. But let me tell you, we didn't _need_ you, we don't need help from anybody, and once I repay this debt, we'll never see you again," pronounced Nora, hands on her hips, chest bellowed out, full of righteous indignation.

Miles could tell that this fiercely independent attitude was a façade covering some deep source of pain. If he were a psychologist he'd spout of some psychobabble about daddy-issues, or external validation, or agency, or some crap like that, but he wasn't – had only sat through his PTSD sessions interacting with the shrink as little as possible – so he only knew to tread lightly.

"There is no debt. Yeah, I want you. But not like this. Not 'cause of _that,_" said Miles, stepping into his pants, "Now get out of here before I have to take you into custody for bombing Badger's whorehouse. You know, there was some collateral damage."

Miles had bet that she was involved in the bombing and now her body language not only confirmed his hunch but also showed a distinct lack of shame; he was surprised to deduce that Nora was no stranger to using bombs, and she had probably figured that some bystanders would be hurt. The bomb had gone off in the late afternoon; it was set in Badger's office. Badger, one of the early-shift bartenders, and one whore were killed. A few whores were injured. Miles supposed from the timing and location that her primary objective was to kill Badger, but not to eliminate the clients.

"Hey, is your sister okay?" Miles asked as he watched the woman pull on her clothes.

Nora turned her head to look at Miles and replied, "Yeah, she's _fine_."

Miles sensed her hesitancy to talk about the topic. "Good. The investigation into child sex-slave trafficking is proceeding well. The sergeant and captain involved have been 'tried' and executed. We haven't been able to find the trio directly involved in your sister's abduction but we'll get 'em."

Nora smiled and said, "I told you we don't need you. You'll never find them. At least not in one piece."

Miles whistled appreciatively, damn, that was HOT, but he decided he needed to end the conversation before his will-power vanished, and took her up on her offer, no matter how bitter the aftertaste would be. "Good. I suppose you can see yourself out?"

Nora nodded and padded toward the open 3rd floor window. If her sister was an alley cat, Nora was a leopard, thought Miles. As she climbed down she paused, arms resting on the windowsill and asked, "Who's Fozzie Bear?" He just laughed, and after a moment she continued climbing down, Miles suppressed a grin and leaned back into bed half-dressed.

Miles hoped that it wouldn't be the last time he saw her. She was one hell of a woman. She had snuck her way into his bedroom in the president's compound, she was familiar with bombs, and had tailed the dumb-fucks who took her sister for 5 days. And she was drop-dead gorgeous, he thought wistfully.

His last thought as he nodded off to sleep was, he should really tighten security on the president's compound. Gotta keep Bass safe from the crazies out there.

* * *

- Author's Note: I'm not sure if I want to continue this story any further; I have ideas for two more chapters ending with Miles and Nora sleeping together out of lust and mutual respect, but I also like this narrative construct. IDK. Reviews, comments on continuation, and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :)


	4. Chapter 4

- Author's Note: Thank you all for reading, reviewing, following and favoriting. Each notice makes me literally do a little dance; I've been getting odd looks from my co-workers :) I hope you continue to like my little tale.

Thank you also to xyber116 for beta'ing this chapter.

I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit. T for language and some sexual themes. Mild spoilers for 1.8.

* * *

**Four months later**

Miles was sitting in his chilly office on the first floor of the president's compound. Winter had not yet arrived in truth, but it was hard to keep the whole damn compound warm without central forced-air heating, and there was no need to waste fuel to keep his office at a toasty 72 degrees. As Miles sifted through his weekly correspondence his eye came across the Weekly Criminal Activities Report for the whole republic. One line in particular caught his eye:

Atlantic City, NJ: Three bombings, multiple fatalities, targets unrelated, no suspects.

The report was dry, factual, and succinct, but Miles had to suppress a wave of glee coursing through his veins. He would bet his last bottle of single malt Scotch that Nora was behind these bombings.

Miles stood up and walked over to the fireplace, there was a blue enamel teakettle on the mantle and he placed the handle on a hook over the fire. He swung the kettle into the fire and gathered a scoop of mint leaves into a tea ball. Mint tea was a piss-poor replacement for coffee or even black tea, but he only wanted something warm to calm himself down and didn't want to waste his stash of precious caffeine.

Miles had tried so hard to forget the spunky bomber. Had tried to forget her gumption, her expertise, and the feel of her hands. Miles had told himself repeatedly that Nora and her kid sister were long gone and he should just get her out of his head.

He tried everything. It didn't work. Groupies were too shallow. Civilians he met in bars were too weak. Alcohol just gave him erotic lucid dreams about her. Even Bass, who was generally pretty self-involved – cunning as they come, but self-involved – started noticing his atypical behavior. Miles had brushed off Bass's queries, blaming Rachel, and had tried to focus, but now – now he had a lead, and all he had to do was not blow it.

The kettle whistled, and Miles used a fire iron to pull the hook out of the fire, and then used a bit of poorly tanned leather to pour himself a cup of tea. He placed the hot kettle on the flagstone mantel and carried the cup back to his large walnut desk.

Procrastination over, Miles pulled out a strip of parchment – paper was scarce even for the General – and began writing an order:

Suspect mercenary bomber; Latina, early twenties.

Locate and apprehend without prejudice. Request skills for militia. Full pardon for past crimes.

- General Matheson

Miles blew on his tea, took out the tea ball, and took a sip. He read over the decree twice hoping that Nora would agree to come, hoping that she wouldn't be enraged at the presumption of him summoning her from 60 miles away, hoping he'd see the enchanting young woman again.

Miles placed the mug of tea down on an empty patch of desk and slid the slip of parchment in a leather courier-case. He stepped into the hall and flagged down a nearby private.

"Get this to a courier immediately. Tell him to double-time it to Captain Fleming in Atlantic City," instructed Miles. The private saluted, yes sir'ed, and strode off to the stables at a brisk pace. Miles hoped he had done the right thing, and thought _what's done is done._

* * *

**One week later**

Miles was sitting in his chilly office, his body in the same physical space as a week ago - his mind, not so much. He was in a fretful bother. Even though it wasn't yet five, there was a tumbler of applejack in his hand and a 2/3rds-full bottle of applejack on the desk. Applejack wasn't even close to his favorite poison, but it was much easier to come by than whiskey, and it got the job done.

Nora should have been here by now, or he should have heard something from Captain Fleming by now; what had gone wrong? He did the mental calculation for the umpteenth time: _it would have taken about 10 hours for the courier to get to Atlantic City, and then once Captain Fleming had apprehended Nora it would have taken 2 or 3 days to get her here, but Captain Fleming would have sent a courier ahead._ It shouldn't be taking this long for a whole station of militiamen to locate one young woman, even one who was a demolitions expert and a damn fine sneak.

Miles had spent the first three days after the fateful Weekly Criminal Activities Report setting up a "diplomatic" expedition to the Baltimore Empire vassal state. The territory was arrogant – especially in choosing a name – but they paid their tithe, housed several units of militiamen, but kept their own peace for the most part. Miles had convinced Bass that they were getting too superior, overconfident, and might be planning a revolt. This was enough to get Bass to green-light a large expedition with discretionary objectives. _It was nice to be able to push Bass's buttons so well_, he thought smugly. It took quite a bit of time to orchestrate such a large undertaking, and Miles had planned the expedition to leave the first week of the New Year. That would give himself time to get everything together and a large margin of time to win over Nora. _Now that margin was being eaten into by Captain Fleming's incompetence!_

For the fourth and fifth days, he had kept one eye on the requisitions – ensuring everything went smoothly – and another on the door, waiting to see a courier bearing news that Nora was on her way. He had gone to the barber – a far more specialized occupation post-Blackout – twice in those first five days, wanting to look his best for Nora. Bass had noticed his pre-occupation – and his immaculate grooming – and proceeded to rag on him for getting worked up over a girl. Bass never suspected who that girl might be, or what skills she might have.

After the first five days, Miles had sent another message requesting a progress update to Captain Fleming. _That was 52 hours ago. Where was that update? Where was Nora?_

The past two days had been hellacious. Miles had literally worn a hole in his office rug; sure it was probably 300 years old, but still. He had been short with everyone and yesterday Bass had sent him his "presidential" whores – buxom, redheaded, twins – to "relieve his tension."

Miles had thanked Bass for the girls, but didn't use them quite as Bass had intended. After swearing the twins to secrecy on pain of death or mutilation, he had told them about Nora, his fears, and desires. He probably wouldn't have unburdened himself to them, but he _had_ finished his second bottle of last year's applejack, and Bass _was_ right, he did need to relieve his tension.

The girls had been surprisingly helpful. Miles had gotten to vent, they had given him reassurance, and a bit of advice. He wasn't sure if he was going to actually follow their advice but still it was nice know that Kelly and Erin didn't think Nora would hate him or kill him for requesting her skills for the militia. And they thought that she wouldn't automatically assume that he was only offering 'cause he wanted into her pants.

A knock on his door released him from his anxious contemplation. A recently recruited, young private entered at his shout and informed Miles, "There's a young woman here to see you sir, she says you have a job for her."

Miles glanced out the window, and thought it was a bit late for people coming to see about being a kitchen assistant, but hold the young private, "Send her in."

Miles put down the glass, scrubbed at his scruff, adjusted his uniform, and turned to face the door.

To his utter shock and amazement, there, in the doorway stood Nora. She was wearing the same Carhartt's and a much-battered Wesleyan hoodie. She was far too young to have attended college prior to the Blackout, so she must have scavenged it from somewhere. Nora's ebony hair was down, and longer than he had thought, tumbling past her shoulders. She looked more beautiful than he had remembered.

Nora stepped into the room, the private closed the door behind her, and she said, "I heard tell of a job you've got for me?"

* * *

- Author's Note: Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated; who wants to make me get odd looks from my co-workers?


	5. Chapter 5

- Author's Note: Thank you all for reading and reviewing!

Thank you also to xyber116 for beta'ing this chapter.

I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit. T for language and some sexual themes. Mild spoilers for 1.8.

* * *

Miles stared at Nora, standing just past the doorway of his office. As he was in the process of shaking off his amazement, and suppressing his arousal – it was important to get this started on the right foot – Nora startled him once more.

"I also heard you're leading an expedition to Baltimore," said Nora.

"Tell me how you found that out, now" he demanded, voice deadly calm. Only four people were supposed to know the final destination of the expedition: Bass, the quartermaster, the mayor of Baltimore, and himself.

Nora responded with a smirk, "You just told me."

Before Miles could stop himself, he was up, out of the chair, and holding Nora against the wall, his hands firmly around her throat. Miles now seriously began considering the possibility of some sort of long con directed by R.J. Martinez, the damn leader of Texas.

Miles was miserable; he'd have to execute this woman for being a Texan spy.

Nora shifted her body slightly in his grasp, Miles thought she was wiggling in an attempt to be provocative, but then he felt an intense bloom of pain. Instinctively, Miles let go of Nora's throat to grab his leg. Nora had scraped her foot along his shin, and it felt like hitting his funny-bone, times a thousand.

Nora darted around him, and slipped into a defensive stance several yards away from him, her eye on the window in the far wall of his office.

"Now that you're_ not_ with the choking, would you mind telling me, **what the fuck just happened?**" exclaimed Nora.

Miles pushed the pain to the back of his mind, and placed his hand over his sword-hilt, "Get out of here Nora, if that is your real name. Tell R.J. the con didn't work." Nora seemed genuinely confused; Miles continued his rant, the flow unabated. "Tell R.J. she picked the wrong bait. Tell R.J. it won't ever work. Tell RJ …" Miles stopped talking, Nora had stopped inching her way to the window to stare at him in puzzlement. If she was a Texan spy, she was a damn fine one.

Nora stared at Miles for several heartbeats, "You think I'm some sorta mole working for a woman named RJ?" At his nod, she guffawed, and started laughing uncontrollably.

In between laughs Miles could make out a few phrases, "… my life … a ruse … the hell …" Nora's knees gave out, and she slid bonelessly onto the floor. The hysterical laughter turned into sobs, "… self-absorbed… naïve…that's rich… a fucking con!"

Miles licked his lips, he at a complete loss of what to do. Under strain Nora had reacted as if she didn't know who R.J. was, and picked up Miles' subtle gender pronoun usage to call R.J. a she. On one hand Miles no longer had to execute Nora as a Texan spy, but on the other he had a sobbing woman on his floor.

Miles stepped back, one eye on the now hiccupping woman, and grabbed the bottle of applejack and his tumbler. Upon second thought, he grabbed a rag too.

Miles approached Nora as if she was unexploded ordnance. He loomed over her, and handed her the tumbler. It contained at least three shots of applejack. She took a gulp, and started coughing when the alcohol vapor hit the back of her throat. She placed the tumbler down, and scooted back a bit.

Nora looked up at Miles, eyes red and puffy, nose runny. "What do you do to suspected spies?" she asked.

Miles tossed her the rag. She blew her nose, sniffed, and wiped her tears off with the sleeve of her Wesleyan hoodie.

Miles waited until she was done, and then replied matter-of-factly, "Suspected spies are interrogated and then executed."

Nora froze; Miles continued, "But I don't think you're a spy anymore."

Nora quirked her eyebrow inquisitively, Miles resumed, "R.J., the leader of Texas, is male. If you _had_ been working for him, you'd likely have not picked up the subtle gender indicator I dropped."

Nora looked like she was about to start laughing again, "So now I'm _not_ a spy because I called R.J. a woman? I think you're tilting at windmills."

"You know Don Quixote, but not Fozzie Bear? What tribe of culture-hating barbarians raised you?" said Miles.

Nora snorted; Miles' weak attempt at a joke somehow, miraculously, relieved some of the tension. Nora said, "Let's try to forget this oddly-cathartic event ever happened, and start again."

Miles nodded and gave Nora his hand. Nora glanced at it with a hint of disdain, and sprang to her feet.

"So, I heard you've got a job for me?" she began again.

"Yes, the militia is in need of your skills with bombs on a diplomatic expedition that may get ugly."

"I heard about the expedition, as well as that fact that you were looking for me, from a friend who works in the Atlantic City Militia Base mess hall. I figured that the two things might be related. I had hoped that it might have something to do with the Baltimore Empire, and the human-trafficking bastards they refuse to take care of."

Hearing Nora's thought-process laid-out so logically made Miles feel like a dick. Miles said, "Well, now I feel like an ass. I'm sorry. I guess I _am_ seeing monsters in the shadows."

Nora looked at him with disbelief in her eyes; she was clearly surprised he apologized. Miles gestured with the applejack bottle, wordlessly inquiring if she wanted more. At her headshake, he took at large swig directly from the bottle, and then asked, "You okay?"

Nora walked over to Miles' desk and sat down leadenly. "No," she said simply. Miles waited silently, to she if she'd continue, and she did. "I just barely convinced Mia that it was okay for me to come here, and that she'd be safe. She hasn't let me out of her sight since… And then you thought I was a mole. And you were gonna execute me! Then I cried in front of you – you! I haven't cried in years and then… in front of _you_!"

Miles wondered if the emphasis was because he was General Matheson, leader of the whole Monroe Militia, or if, just maybe, it was because he was Miles, a guy she liked. Miles pushed that thought back, and asked Nora carefully, "So, Mia is not doing so well?"

Nora scoffed softly and responded, "No, Mia is not fine. Just because she had been rescued by 'Prince Charming' before she'd been raped, didn't mean she is actually okay. And I love her, I really truly do, but its hard being a mercenary bomber if you have to take your kid sis everywhere."

Now here was an opening Miles could take, so he floated a trial-balloon. "It might be easier on you, and Mia, if you worked for the Militia."

"Why do you thing I'm here, instead of half-way to Boston?" snarked Nora. Miles suppressed a grin at her pluck.

"But I wouldn't have to…" Nora gestured at his body. Miles felt his face go stony, hoping he was misconstruing something, "… join the Militia?" She added.

Miles was heartily relieved. She had been gesturing at his _uniform_, not asking obliquely if she had to sleep with him. Miles responded, "No, you'd be a civilian contractor. You can see Master Sergeant Wells, the quartermaster, in the morning about pay and benefits."

"Yes sir, General Matheson, sir." She saluted half-seriously, and stepped towards the door.

Miles grabbed her forearm, "Please, call me Miles." His voice cracked on his own name, he cursed himself mentally, and dropped her arm. Nora gave him a look he was unable to interpret and said, "Miles" softly, before leaving the room.

_God, how could one damn word be so arousing,_ thought Miles.

* * *

- Author's Note: This is the penultimate chapter guys, and I know it's a bit of an emotional roller-coaster. Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

- Author's Note: Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and following. Each notice makes my day :) Here is the conclusion to my story, I hope you like it.

Thank you also to xyber116 for beta'ing this chapter.

I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit. T for language and some sexy kissage.. Mild spoilers for 1.8.

* * *

**Two weeks later**

Miles rode near the front of a convoy of 2,000 militiamen. His seat was easy after years of practice. Miles hadn't really spent time with horses prior to the Blackout, sure he had ridden a few times at Boy Scout camp, but since the Blackout he had really come to appreciate horses.

The January air was crisp, and the double column of men walked – for only the officers were mounted – along what was once US Highway 1. They had passed Gunpowder Falls State Park an hour ago, and were now traveling along the highway, maybe 15 miles from the center of the Baltimore. The trees were bare, but for shrouds of still-green kudzu draping them some of them.

Miles was thinking of Nora, as was now typical. Nora was somewhere in the rear of the convoy traveling with the militia's munitions expert, a former chemist, and his wagon of supplies. Nora had settled Mia into the Officers' Dependents Dorm, most of the kids there were officer's bastards, and much younger than Mia, but Miles knew it was the best place for her. The Officers' Dependents Dorm had been one of Miles' better ideas. It was one of the perks of being a militia officer, knowing that your kids would be taken care of, even if you died in the line of duty.

Miles wanted to see Nora, but he tried to remind himself that he was a General, The General, and he should stop acting like a love-sick school-boy. He had thrown himself into this expedition as a way to distance himself from Nora, as a way to ensure he wouldn't put undue pressure on her. So she wouldn't _assume_ anything. So the Militia wouldn't assume anything. So _Bass_ wouldn't assume anything. But oh, how he wanted to see Nora, to trade barbs with her, to learn more about her, to feel her hands on his body.

The expedition approached the Gunpowder River, 8 miles from the border of the Baltimore Empire – the old 695 Beltway – and Miles continued to reminisce about Nora. The cadence of the horse's hoof-beats changed as the expedition moved from the asphalt of the highway to the concrete of the bridge.

When most of the troops were on the bridge, there was a thunderous boom. Miles dove off his bucking horse as only someone with IED-honed reflexes could. There was another explosion. The officers' horses were screaming in terror. Miles felt the bridge buckle.

"Get off the bridge!" he roared to his men.

As his feet took off on their own volition, his mind rushed to Nora. She was near the rear of the convoy. She shouldn't be on the bridge. She should be safe.

There was another detonation. The whole bridge gave way, starting at the end closest to the rear of the convoy. Miles began to run even faster. He was passing militiamen left and right.

Just as Miles reached the asphalt past the bridge, there was a deafening groan and the whole bridge fell into the Gunpowder River. Over the sounds of terrified men and horses, Miles could hear the thudding of his heart.

Sides bellowing, Miles starting looking around, taking stock of who had made it to this side, and trying to see how many made it to the other. Quick count over, he determined that he had almost 200 men, mostly raw recruits; there were about 400 men on the other side. Miles squinted, trying to see if one of the people on the other side wore civilian attire, but he couldn't.

He had lost 70% of his men from a bridge being blown out beneath them! Miles gathered the tattered remains of his expedition, mounted one of the few remaining horses, and headed downstream. He stopped to make sure the other group – presumably lead by Captain James Sorenson, the head of the rear guard, a reliable if unimaginative solider – was following suit.

Miles informed his men to keep an eagle eye out; they should expect more attacks. He didn't know if it would be better to turn tail and retreat back to Philly, or if staying the course would be better. He had time to decide. If he remembered right the next bridge was 5 miles downstream, at least 2 hours cutting cross-country, for the I-95 bridge was unusable. All Miles knew now, was that he wanted – no needed – to see Nora, to see that she was okay.

* * *

It was the longest two hours of Miles' life, and he had had some pretty long hours – especially in Iraq. The MD-7 bridge was out, so they had to go all the way to US-40, the last bridge before the Gunpowder River met the Chesapeake Bay. Despite Miles' concerns they hadn't been harried. Perhaps 180 men were just too many for whatever rabble blew up the bridge; however, Miles had a hunch that the Baltimore Slavers were behind it. What Miles didn't know was whether it was an opening salvo, or just a last ditch effort. Before they had gotten too far he had sent out a few men undercover to attempt to find the parties responsible, and bring them back for questioning.

After having the base of the US-40 bridge searched for any more bombs, Miles led his men over the bridge to await the other troops. That group contained the wagons, which couldn't travel easily cross-country, so they would have had to double-back a bit and take roads. Miles understood why they weren't here yet, but that didn't mean he liked it.

He sent a few seasoned corporals down the road, to scout for the other party, and directed the rest of the men to begin setting up and securing camp. Dusk would soon be upon them, and if the dick-wads were going to continue their attack, tonight would be most likely.

As Miles was reprimanding a raw recruit for digging the latrines too close to the river, he heard an increase in background sound. He turned around. The other contingent was approaching. He threw caution to the wind, and ran towards the other party.

As he approached the larger group, he suddenly started feeling very sheepish. Miles slowed to a slightly more respectable lope. He saw Captain James Sorenson, and jogged to him.

The Captain saluted and Miles asked for a report. Miles listened to Sorenson's report with less than half his brain. He searched the crowds. There, by a wagon. There she was. Miles interrupted the captain's report, said "Good job, Captain," and strode off – off to Nora.

Miles rubbed his left arm with his right hand in a very self-conscious manner. He forced himself to stop. Miles proceeded towards her.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You?" She returned.

"Yeah," was his answer, he wanted to stare at his feet like a school-boy.

"Screw this," she exclaimed, and before he could blink, she had thrown herself at him. His arms wrapped instinctively around her slim form, hands resting on her lower back.

Her head tilted up toward his, "I'm glad you're safe," she said softly before capturing his lips with her own. Her lips were so soft, so warm, so inviting. He moved to deepen the kiss, and her hands grabbed the back of his head, and gently pulled him down, closer.

Miles tightened his hands about her lower back, gently pulling her up, closer. Nora tangled her fingers in the hair at the base of his head. Miles was glad he no longer wore his hair in a buzz-cut 'cause damn that felt good. Miles softly stroked her bottom lip with his tongue and felt her lips part. Miles felt Nora's tongue dart against his, and the combination of the sensation of tangling tongues, and of fingers twirling in his hair was indescribable.

Miles broke off the kiss, breathing hard. He looked around bashfully. He scrubbed at his scruff; all of the 600 militiamen under his command had just seen that display. So much for not putting any pressure on her, and keeping his feelings – no _their_ feelings, for she just clearly illustrated she returned them – under-wraps.

After a beat or two, some scoundrel started clapping, and soon the whole regiment joined in. Chagrined, Miles turned his down to look at Nora, and asked, "So, now what do we do?"

Brazenly, she grabbed his hand, and placed it on her inner arm. Arm situated in a suitably Jane Austen-y manner, Nora led him towards the camp, seemingly unfazed by the attention of the crowd.

* * *

- Author's Note: This is the last chapter. Reviews and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated, even if you read this fic in 2015, and laugh at how my hypothesis was disproven; if you liked it, make my day and let me know.


End file.
